By Justin Glasser
Julan777@aol.com

Feedback happily read and answered
(Thanks again, Jules.)
Rating: R for violence and adult language
Category: X/UST
Spoilers: Through Fight the Future
Keywords: Mulder/Scully UST, X-file
Archive: Gossamer, yes, Ephemeral, yes, all others please ask first.
Summary: Mulder and Scully are taken off the ice, but they wouldn't call it being rescued.
Disclaimer: No permission has been granted, no money has been made, no infringement is intended.

Dedication: This piece would have been impossible without the help of some very key people:

Marguerite--who is, once again, responsible for urging me forward, even when I dug my heels in and didn't
want to go.

Meredith--who has reminded me over and over again that writing is more than getting the words on the
page--it's getting the *right* words on the page.

Nascent--who gave me more scientific information than I ever needed, and all of the encouragement I could
ever want. If it rings true, it's because of her-- if it doesn't, it's because I didn't listen to her.

Dawn Pares--who said it was good.

Certitude is dedicated to Jordan for her brilliant insight, her brutal honesty, and her damn good advice. She's
what every fanciful author without an airtight plot needs in his back pocket, and who every young man without
a clue needs to talk to. Without her, this story would not exist.

Author's Notes:

Once again, short, sweet, and to the point.

The concept for Certitude came from the poem "Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold. The title and chapter titles
come from that poem, as does the sentiment underlying the piece, the analysis of which I will not bore you with
here. If you care for an explication on the relation between Certitude and "Dover Beach," please ask. I'll be
happy to explain.

Let the games begin . . .

~~~

Certitude 01/10: Darkling Plain
by Justin Glasser

Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00.

*****

When Scully first opened her eyes, I thought I was in heaven.

I was wrong.

*****

Somewhere in Antarctica
Day Two
0115 hours

He sat motionless in front of her bed for minutes at a time, hardly seeming to breathe. He might not
have even been seeing her, he sat so still, holding onto her hand, running his fingers over it again
and again and again.

There was no color in the room, only whiteness, and greyness, and the pale shocked flesh of their
faces, his and hers. A matched set.

She'd only been awake twice since they were brought in seventy hours ago. Once she'd woken up
screaming. Nightmares. Her partner had not heard her--although his room was right next door, it
was soundproofed, as all the rooms were. No need for passers-by to know what was going on inside,
the architect had said during the planning sessions. The architect might have changed his mind
when he saw the inside of one of those rooms himself, afterwards. The architect's smile hadn't been
the same since.

Hers wouldn't be either, if they ever got out.

*****

She is somewhere between sleeping and waking, a heavy and dim place that does not permit speech
or movement. She is remembering.

It was cold, colder even than when they were out on the ice later, because that cold was only outside.

She had imagined rape, as all women did, after seeing certain movies, hearing certain stories. After
one of the female agents she'd been in the Academy with had been attacked right outside the door to
her apartment, after a nine-year-old black girl was found violated and murdered on a Metro train,
after Melissa said that once, in college, some guy had pushed her legs apart and was tore down her
panties before she cold-cocked him with a dictionary. After things.

This was different.

It had been inside her, a solid icy thickness that permitted no resistance, forced through her open
mouth and down into her gullet. If she had been able to look down she would have expected to see it
emerging from between her legs, a reverse violation, a skewer that pierced her through.

There was no pain, only a fullness, a feeling like one she had never felt, a feeling of something living
inside her. In a way that horrified her now, she had almost enjoyed it, the slow bleeding of herself
into something else, something that would bear her mark even after it had consumed her. She had
felt it, even then, even when there was nothing but fluid coursing through the umbilical cord in her
throat. It would kill her, she knew, but before it killed her it would need her, and that was
something she hadn't had . . . the time before.

It only hurt afterwards, the prick of the needle, and then the blinding agony of withdrawal. Her
veins had burned with it. For a second she had wanted to cry out against him, against Mulder, who
had stolen from her the only chance she would even have to grow something of her own. Her baby.
Her monstrous and icy alien. When she woke up to Mulder pounding on her chest, she was empty
again. Empty of the parasite, empty of the hateful cord which gave it life, empty of the feeling of
something besides herself within her skin.

Sometimes she wished it was still there.

*****

Report 4 of --
Operative 7477108N
1600 hours

M subject remains in attendance on F subject, observing her closely. This is congruent with data in
file re: relationship.

M vital signs steadily improving, although subject appears listless and detached from
surroundings. Both subjects slightly underweight due to recent strenuous activity and exposure. F
vital signs unacceptable for onset of trial, although also improving. Estimated time of trial
commencement:24-48 hours.

F subject remains in semi-conscious state, fluctuating between REM stage and second stage sleep,
congruent with data re: previous subjects. Dreams appear to be violent or frightening in nature.
(Confirm through survellance of room M and F. Do not, repeat DO NOT attempt to interview F
subject.) No attempt has been made to restore F to conciousness. No attempt has been made to
administer sedatives to F. M subject does not attempt to wake F subject, despite overt concern for F
subject's well- being.

M subject fully conscious, but unresponsive to interrogation besides hostile demands to be returned
to F subject. Anticipate M subject to remain uncooperative until F subject semi-recovery.
Attachment level abnormally high for subjects not engaged in sexual relationship. Could result in
an intitial negative cooperative response, but may be used as a persuasive device once F subject
recovery has commenced.

Activity in F room negligible. This concludes report 4 of --. Next report filing due at 1800 hours.

Operative reporting: 7477108N

He leaned back from the computer and wiped one hand over his face, eclipsing for a moment the
multiple screens projecting their faces, their bodies, obscure corners of their rooms. Sometimes he
hated his job.

*****

Her eyes opened gradually, as if they were weighted down with tiny stones. They did not flutter.
Scully's not the type of woman who flutters her lashes. It was strange. One moment, her eyes were
entirely closed, and the next time I looked I could see tiny slices of cornea through her lashes. I know
I was excited because her first words spoken a few moments later when her eyelids were at half-mast
and she had the foriegn look of someone who has done too many drugs were "Mulder, you're
hurting my hand."

I relaxed my grip, conscious of the feeling of my skin pulling away from hers, cell by cell.

"How do you feel?" I was grinning like an idiot, I knew, but I wouldn't stop. She was here, alive.
More or less well.

She didn't answer for a second, but I knew what was coming.

"Fine, Mulder. I'm fine." She almost smiled as she said it. "Where are we?"

"Some military hospital, I think. The guys who bring in the food don't talk, but they look like
grunts. I don't remember being transported anywhere, although the first couple of hours are pretty
hazy."

"How long?"

"About two days. It's hard to tell." The lights in our rooms seemed to be set on timers, dimming
and brightening in an imitation of daylight, but there were no clocks and no windows. I couldn't
find any of my clothes, let alone my watch. "They're keeping us here under a fifteen day
quarantine."

She nodded. We were old hands at the quarantine.

We sat in silence for a while. I rubbed my fingers over her hand, wanting to squeeze her, wanting to
say something, but nothing came to mind. They had grabbed her right from under my nose, but I
had grabbed her back. I was happy to see her. Scully. My partner. We could go back and tell
everyone what we had seen, what had been done to her, where we had been. It wasn't exactly
evidence, but it was more experience than we had ever had together. Scully and I were finally on the
same page.

"Thank you," she said, her voice slicing through my reverie.

"For what?"

"For coming after me."

I looked at her, stunned. For coming after her? What else would I have done?

"All part of the job," I said, watching her fingers between mine. "You'd have done the same for
me."

"I have done the same for you."

I grinned. Ducked my head to her hand.

"I missed you," I said into the bedclothes.

"I know," she said. "So what do you do for fun around here?"

I didn't tell her the thought that came to mind immediately, in part because she couldn't do it, and
in part because "watch you sleep" seemed too pathetic to actually say out loud.

*****

Addendum to Report 4 of -- Operative 7477108N 1727 hours

F subject conscious. Commencing 24 hour surrveillance recording. Estimated time until trial onset:
18-24 hours.

*****end 1/10*****

Certitude 02/10: Ignorant Armies
by Justin Glasser

Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10

*****

Somewhere in Antarctica
Day Three

When Dana had been five, she had her appendix out following an acute attack of appendicitis on
her second day of kindergarten. Her mother had brought her *Madeline* by Ludwig Bemelmans,
and, although she hadn't really liked the book, Dana had been fascinated by the scene in the
hospital when Madeline realizes the crack in the ceiling looks like a rabbit. Lying on her back in a
hospital bed a million miles from anywhere, an older and wiser Dana Scully found herself wishing
for a rabbit made of ceiling cracks. Her ceiling was bare and blank and white. Precise. Military.

She wasn't sure quite when she had regained consciousness: she had simply faded from black to
grey to white and realized somewhere along the way that her eyes were open. She could see the tips
of Mulder's white socks crossed at the bottom of her blankets.

"How long have you been here?" she asked.

"Hey. Morning, sunshine." Mulder pulled his feet off the bed, and sat up, elbows on his knees.
"How long have you been awake?"

She shrugged. "I come and go."

"Talking of Michelangelo?" he asked, leaning in close. She saw that he had shaved. That door in
the far right wall was the bathroom, probably.

"You feel okay?"

She nodded. She did, although she had the groggy feeling of someone who's had too much sleep. She
wanted to get up and run around the room, to lift something heavy, but it didn't seem worth the
effort to get out of bed.

"They brought breakfast a couple of hours ago, but you weren't up for it. You didn't miss
anything."

It was just as well. She wasn't hungry. She felt like she couldn't ever eat anything again, although
she knew she looked horrible. Too skinny. Bony.

"How long have you been here?" she asked again, although she thought she knew the answer.

"A while," he said, suddenly not looking at her.

"You spent the night in here."

He nodded.

"Mulder, I'm fine. There was no need--"

"I didn't do it for you," he blurted, slumping back in his chair. "I . . . " His fingers folded into a
temple under his chin. "I wanted to be sure you were still here."

She fought back the urge to sigh. He had slept in a plastic chair next to her bed last night, and he
would probably be doing it again tonight, and she probably couldn't do anything about it. "You
wouldn't happen to have a piece of paper and a pencil around here, would you?"

Mulder leaned over near her and she heard a drawer slide open. "Ta da! You gonna write me a love
letter, Scully?"

She took the paper from him and drew an upside down L on it with the mechanical pencil he had
given her. "Nope," Scully said, meeting his gaze. "I'm going to kick your ass at Hangman."

*****

Report 7 of --
Operative 7477108N
1147 hours

Night observation record indicates no unusual activity. M subject remained in room for entire
night. Anticipate serious resistance from M subject re: separation. Do not, repeat, DO NOT attempt
to execute separation unless Plan A cover is blown.

M subject's morale improved since F subject's recovery became apparent. M appears active and
engaged with F subject. F subject's morale undeterminable at this time.

F subject regained consciousness at 1145 hours today. Readings indicate normal sleep pattern.
Elimination pattern normal considering limited food and liquid intake during captivity. Unable to
assess physical condition further without examination. Preliminary examination scheduled for
tomorrow at 0900 conditional on F subject consciousness.

Interaction between subjects appears normal re: information in prior entries. M subject continues to
observe F subject at all times, but this behavior within normal parameters. Subjects engage in
conventional conversation and juvenile word games to pass the time (suggest other diversions
added into room to prevent overt speculation on situation). Recordings of interaction on tapes
8387+.

Estimated trial initiation in 18-24 hours.

This concludes report 7 of --.

Next scheduled filing at 1500.

Operative 7477108N.

*****

ìSo tell me, Mulder,î Scully said, drawing a little circle for the hanged manís head. ìWhat was it
like to go to school abroad?î

He looked up at her, shocked. ìWhy?î

ìI went to--the only time Iíve ever been abroad was with my family. Whatís it like to go on your
own? Your turn.î

ìL.î

ìNope.î Scully drew a small neck on the circle.

ìNeck before face, Scully. Thatís cruel.î

ìMulder.î

ìIt was a learning experience. Something that everyone goes through, I guess. M.î

ìNo m. That doesnít sound like a lot of fun.î Her pencil made a dot for an eye.

Mulder smiled. ìFun, Scully. Youíre advocating for fun?î

ìSometimes I wonder about you. About things you might have missed because of your sister.
Guess.î

ìM.î He shook his head. ìSorry, um, t.î

One t.î She filled in the fourth of the five blanks. Mulder clasped his hands over his head in a
victory salute.

ìYou donít have to worry about me, Scully.î He wasnít watching her anymore.

Sometimes I donít think I have a choice, Mulder.î She felt herself leaning over, tilting her head
toward him in the way she knew she did when she was trying to get something out of him. She saw
the smooth thin column of his neck, the dark hair vulnerable at the back of his head. She didnít
touch it.

This wasnít what she had intended when she had asked him about England. She had meant to stay
on the light and easy path of reminiscence, and instead had wandered into Mulderís dark wood of
secrets, like Little Red Riding Hood tripped up by the wolf. Mulderís pain often caught her by
surprise. It saddened her.

ìHey, who rescued who here?î he asked, returning her to the primrose path.

ìOh, we;re playing that game now?î She smiled. ìThink back, Special Agent Mulder, to a time
about five years ago when two young FBI agents found themselves investigating the disappearance
and sudden re-appearance of one Colonel Budahaas--î

ìOkay, okay.î He held up his hands in surrender.

ìGuess.î She poked the paper.

ìN.î

ìNope.î The one eyed hanged man earned a body.

ìSo weíre even.î

ìIím up thirteen games to none, Mulder.î

ìNobody loves a smartass, Agent Scully.î

She leaned over and put a hand on his arm. ìYou just keep that in mind. Guess.î

ìO.î

He went on to lose the game, spectacularly.

*****

It's no secret among my co-workers at the FBI that I have an eidetic memory. Anyone with access to
my records knows that my I.Q. tests well into the genius range, that, in the limited and circumspect
ways in which we measure the human intellect, I am considered one of the *creme de la creme,* the
cream that rises to the stop when we stir the human brain. To be blunt, I'm fucking smart.

And my partner, who is no mental slouch herself, has just beat me fifty games out of fifty at
Hangman without once resorting to what I would consider the unfair tactic of using medical jargon
for her words.

I would hate her if I could.

As it stands, I am remarkably, almost foolishly happy. Scully is napping again. She drifted off after
cleaning my clock with the word "ephemeral" despite the fact that it has three "e"s which is almost
the required first guess in the game of Hangman. It's an unwritten rule, like the one that says you
put the x in the center square in Tic-Tac-Toe. She seems better.

As long as she continues to seem better, then I'm content to wait out the next eleven days in this sad
excuse of a quarantine--no t.v., no books, no one else to talk to. When we were in the Arctic, we had
cable and books and cards. Comparing the two is like night and day, pun intended. I shouldn't
complain. At this moment, I couldn't ask for anything else.

Maybe a better chair.

When she's asleep, I think about the things I saw after I fell through the ice. A long time ago, while I
was at Oxford, I wrote a paper on the psycho-social effects of fairy tales. During the course of my
research, I was surprised to discover how different the original fairy tales were from my memories of
them, how much more brutal and frightening they were. I was particularly shocked by a version of
Sleeping Beauty in which she is kept as an ornament by the prince, and, still asleep, gives birth to
two children. That's what those people down there in the ship reminded me of, postmodern
Sleeping Beauties, gestating and giving birth, without a prince to wake them.

Which, if I want to take the analogy that far, means that I am Scully's prince. She'd love that.

I have a room of my own, next door, but since she woke up I haven't been back there, except to
retrieve the limited toiletries Iíve been provided with. As foolish as it sounds, I'm afraid to turn my
back on her. Although intellectually I understand that there is no way that Scully could leave at
this point, that she's too weak, and that we are virtually trapped here under quarantine, I still
almost ran back from my room, disposable razor in hand, afraid that when I pushed open her door
there would be nothing but a neatly made hospital bed.

Considering what we've been through, it wouldn't be unheard of.

*****

A dream.

She knows it is a dream, but there they stand in the hallway, and it's today, and his hand is on the
back of her neck, and he looks like Mulder but she knows that if he kisses her she will collapse,
enchanted, and something evil will happen to her. She wants to push away, but this is Mulder, her
Mulder--

--but it's not, it's someone else, someone without a face, probing her, stabbing a needle into the back
of her neck and his tongue into her mouth at the same time, and suddenly she knows that
everything she was taught in medical school was a lie, that sexual intercourse doesn't make babies,
but this does, this hot tongue in her throat, squirming and wet, and she feels her stomach heave . . .

*****

Report 8.1 of --
Operative 7477108N
1523 hours

F subject has just awakened from REM sleep and vomited. Sanitation crew has been notified.
Sudden onset of illness presumably due to dreams, not any adverse reaction to captivity. However,
further tests recommended.

M subject in attendance. Both subjects to be removed to M subject's room. Surveillance switch- over
activated as of 1524 hours.

This concludes Report 8.1 Operative 7477108N

*****

It had happened so suddenly that he almost missed it. Her movement on the screen caught his
attention and he looked up just in time to see her gag, the remains of her lunch spill forward into
her lap.

Mulder (M subject, but he knew their names, of course he did) was on his feet in an instant, pulling
the bedspread away and bundling it at the foot of the bed, then returning to her side. He leaned over
her, rubbing between her shoulder blades, crooning into her ear. He'd have to send the tapes to the
sound techs to decipher--the mics were good, but not that good--and he wanted to know what
Mulder said. What did they say to each other? How did they get to this place where she would reach
for him almost before she woke up? How did that happen?

She didn't cry, he noticed, although she seemed shaken. Her face was pale and her lips trembled,
even after Mulder went and got her a wet (he presumed) wash cloth. She wiped her face, then leaned
back into her partner's shoulder. Mulder didn't embrace her, something that should probably go
into the report, but the observer didn't have the heart to start a new one. Sanitation would be there
soon, and he knew they would break apart the minute they were disturbed. It was one of the many
things he knew from watching them, from reading their files.

His records were supposed to be exhaustive, but there was only so much he could write down before
his eyes throbbed in their sockets and his mind sagged. It made him expendable, he understood, if
he included everything. If he told his bosses all he knew about the subjects, then they would have no
use for him when the testing came to its culmination. He would not be needed to consult, and if he
was not needed, then it might be easier to have him . . . disappear. It was a matter of life and death.

So to speak.

He tilted back in his chair and pulled his book back on his lap, glancing up only when he saw the
sanitation crew arrive on the screen and his subjects pull apart. He smiled.

Clockwork.

*****

She only knew she had scared him afterwards, when they were in his room, seated on opposite ends
of the bed. He had wrapped her in the bedspread and she felt young, like a little girl at a slumber
party, although the room was exactly the same as the one she had left. All she needed was a hot
cocoa. Then she saw him, really saw him.

Mulder was staring at her.

She smiled. "Mulder, I'm fine."

He shook his head. "You woke up sick--"

"It was a nightmare, Mulder. Really. I'm fine."

He continued to stare at her for a moment more, searching her face for clues, scouring her for signs
of deception. She smiled again, but she was concerned. Mulder tended to be either overprotective or
completely disengaged, and she preferred . . . no, she didn't, but it was easier to deal with the latter.

"I know you're worried, Mulder. Trust me."

Finally he looked away, rolling his eyes. "If I had a nickel for every time you said that, Scully--"

"You'd retire and support me in the manner to which I am accustomed." Scully reached out and
took his hand. "I'm okay."

"Okay."

Scully released him and lay back against the pillows. She hadn't lied to him--she was okay--but she
was also tired. She felt as if she couldn't sleep enough, as if she couldn't ever get enough rest,
although when she woke she felt dizzy with lethargy. Maybe this time she wouldn't dream at all. If
she were lucky.

"Hey, Scully."

"Hmm?" she murmured.

"If you throw up on my bed, do you think they'll move us to the penthouse?"

She was asleep before she could answer.

*****end 02/10*****

Certitude 03/10: Neither Joy
by Justin Glasser

Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10

*****

When I woke up she was gone.

*****

Somewhere in the Antarctic
Day Four
0900 hours

When they came to get her, she didn't fight them.

They didn't say anything to her, just pushed open the door silently and stood there, hands folded behind their
backs, legs slightly spread. At ease. A posture Scully knew intimately from life in a military family. These kids
weren't medical personnel, even though they wore green medical scrubs. They had probably been drafted into
orderly service by their gruff C.O., a commandeering stern fatherly figure like her own.

She almost smiled at them, at their young inscrutable faces, despite the fact that she suspected each of them had
a neat revolver tucked in the waistband of his pants. Instead, she slid out of bed, tugged her robe on over her
sweats, and padded toward the door, leaving Mulder asleep in his chair, a bad guard dog.

She went without waking him, because she wanted to, because she was tired of not knowing what had
happened to her. Because this was the only way she was likely to get some answers. Because she was bored.

They put her in a wheelchair, although she told them she was well enough to walk, and wheeled her through a
series of halls so complex and vast that she was lost within minutes. Each hallway she was turned down looked
exactly like every other. There were no markings of any kind that she could see. One of the orderlies, the one
who seemed younger, an academy boy, pushed in absolute silence. Ghosts with guns.

When they pushed her through the stainless steel doors into the lab, she felt a surge of relief and familiarity,
comfortable for the first time since eternity. They wheeled her past the waist high tables and over their glossy
edges she could glimpse the microscopes and charts, the slides and lab books. Centrifuges lined one wall, the
gel boxes were stacked neatly against another. Lab technicians bent over dishes, microscopes, microfuges,
hypnotised by the somnolent hum of the refrigerators, murmuring back and forth to one another. They didn't
look up as she was wheeled past, but their indifference did not trouble her. They were scientists, people she
could understand.

The orderlies pushed her into a room at the back, a converted office, judging from the cheap metal desk and the
bookshelf. She knew that normal protocol dictated that samples be taken outside the lab, but she also knew that
she and Mulder were not at a medical facility. They were in a military research compound, a facility that was
doing its best to accommodate the two stray federal employees who had stumbled into their hands. Nothing
could make that more clear than the fact that she was wearing the underpants of a man named Bauer, a man
who was probably one of the low guys on the totem pole, and was definitely one of the shorter ones. It was a
relief, though, to be brought to the lab to give samples: Mulder already knew enough about her--he didnít need
to watch her pee in a cup, too.

The blinds on the large glass office window were lowered, but through the window in the door she could see
the orderlies talking to a thin man in a white coat--the doctor, she imagined. When he turned to enter, she could
see that he wore a surgical mask, and glasses with heavy black frames. She had the feeling she wouldn't be able
to pick him out again if her were the only man in the room. She suspected that was the point.

"Dr. Scully," he said as he entered, and she heard the metallic buzz of a voice masker.

"I don't think we've been introduced," she said, standing and holding out her hand.

The doctor looked at her, twisting one of the fingers of his latex glove.

"You are?" she tried again, re-extending her hand.

He took a step back. His eyes behind the distorting lenses of his glasses were wide and blank.

ìLook,î she said. ìIím sure that what you do here is very important and also very classified. I know that my
partner and I aren't supposed to be here, and that youíre trying to limit our exposure to what is probably very
sensitive information, but I donít think your name is too much to ask, do you?î She smiled.

The doctorís swallow was audible in the small room.

"Perhaps we should just get on with the tests, Dr. Scully," he said, finally, turning to pick up the chart on the
desk.

"Perhaps," she murmured under her breath.

He waved her toward the scale in the corner of the room and began putting her through her paces. She
complied with the tests, the weighing and measuring, the salve for windburn, the blood drawing, the cell
scrapings from the inside of her mouth, the lights shined in her eyes, nose, and ears. The doctor did not speak
except to tell her where to stand or to open her mouth wider.

And when the doctor left the room to allow her to give her urine sample, Scully snuck a look at her chart.

*****

I must have been in the doorway a micro-second after the orderly left. Scully was sitting on the edge of her
bed, her legs dangling over the side. She wore a white robe over her sweats and thick socks. She looked like a
commercial for tea, only she wore the puzzled and concerned expression she used during a case, when she was
piecing the puzzle together.

"May I come in?" I asked, and she didn't look at me, but just nodded, brushing her hair back out of her face.

"Are you okay?" It seemed like the only question I ever asked anymore.

She nodded again, finally glancing up. She gestured at me, patting the bed beside her. When I sat down she
leaned in close, her voice hardly a whisper.

"They gave me some tests, Mulder," she said, and I felt my heart drop. It couldn't be the cancer again, it
couldn't be. I had fixed that, hadn't I? I had paid my debt.

"And?" I said.

"While they were talking I saw my chart. There's something odd about it."

"Are you okay?" I asked again.

"What do you know about the makeup of the blood, Mulder?"

"High school biology was a long time ago," I answered, wondering if there was such a thing as blood cancer.
Shit.

Leukemia.

But Scully was already talking. "The blood is made up of several different kinds of cells, Mulder--
lymphocytes, granulocytes, mast cells, macrophages. Any histologist could tell them apart just by looking at
them. According to my chart they took blood when I got here and once on the second day--"

Her slight and accusing glance swept over me like a breeze. I opened my mouth to offer some sort of excuse
for standing by while the orderly drew blood, but she had already moved on.

"--and have been counting my cells. If I had some sort of infection it would show up in variations of those
numbers.

"My count's were all normal as far as that went. But Mulder . . . "

I saw her throat work as she swallowed.

"There's an extra line on my chart. Mulder, over eight percent of my blood cells fit into a category labelled
'X-cells.'"

"I knew it was in your blood, " I murmured, but she refused to be dissuaded. I squeezed my fingers together in
my lap.

"Eight percent is a lot, Mulder. Too much for an unknown quantity."

"What does it mean, Scully?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. It could be some kind of code, something they're testing for but don't want
to explain. Or it could be some aspect of research that I'm not aware of, but that doesn't seem likely. We've
been studying the immune system for years. We know all there is to know about blood components, even if we
don't always know what they do."

"What if it's something new?"

Her eyes met mine. "What do you mean?"

"What if something happened to you while you were . . . " I groped for words to describe it. "What if they did
something to you?"

Scully paled. I put my hand on her knee, and kept my mouth shut. I'd said enough already.

"That's possible, Mulder. As of yet, I have no way of knowing what effects my abduction has had on my
physical well-being."

I didn't say anything. She'd resorted to the medical voice, which meant that she wasn't about to discuss it. I
rubbed her knee through the thick terry and thought about how long it'd been since I'd seen her in clothes, her
clothes. It dawned on me that I missed her in clothes, in those fitted suits she wore to meetings, and the high
heels designed to make her look taller, and the t-shirts and jeans she put on for the field work we'd been doing
in Dallas. She didn't seem like herself in the robes and sweats they'd put us in.

"There's no point in worrying about it now, Mulder," she said. "I couldn't do anything even if I did know what
they're looking for."

"So we'll just put our faith in the government to do right by us, hmm?" I asked, slinging my arm around her
shoulders.

She laughed, which was my intention, and leaned into my loose embrace. I kissed her on the head, right where
her hair parts. Right where I always kissed her. Almost always. For a moment we forgot all that we had been
through, all that we had yet to endure once we got back home, and just sat there, together. In that second I think
we were both convinced that we were going to be fine.

I should have known better.

*****end 3/10*****
 

Certitude 04/10: Nor Light
by Justin Glasser
Ý
Disclaimers and Acknowledgments in section 00/10
Ý
*****
Day Four
Report 12 of --
Operant 7477108N
2000 hours
Ý
Subjects remained active until 1145.Ý Introduction of
reading material and board games effective in
distracting them from further lapses in quarantine
protocol.
Ý
After brief decline in MF morale resulting from illicit
chart inspection by F subject, subjects appear to
have suppressed curiosity and concern re: F
subject's health.Ý Level of control exhibited by
subjects in reacting to such information impressive,
and previously unremarked in files.ÝÝ No further
discussion of F subject's medical condition has
occurred.Ý
Ý
Recommend increased supervision during future
medical exams: F subject's curiosity and intelligence
should not be underestimated with respect to her
physical well-being.Ý (See F subject file pages 352-
367 inclusive.)
Ý
The morale of both subjects remains acceptable,
despite F subject's curiosity about X cell readings.
After investigative questions, subjects resumed
word play and language games, most of which were
dominated by F subject. (See statistical analysis
attached.) No significant topics of conversation
addressed.
Ý
Both subjects also began physical activity today.Ý M
and F subjects did minimal level calisthenics and
stretching.Ý Conversation indicates that subjects
plan on continuing physical activity for the duration
of the quarantine: improvements in general condition
will be noted.Ý
Ý
Both subjects remain in M subject's room.Ý F subject
sleeps in the bed: M subject sleeps in a chair with
feet on the bed.Ý Note that M subject sleeps with
back to entry--both subjects incapable of fast-action
response should acquisition be necessary.Ý
Ý
Estimated time to trial onset: 12 hours
Ý
*****
Ý
She lay silent in the darkness, feeling the soft weight
of the blankets on her chest, listening to her own
breath sighing in and out.Ý She wasn't really tired,
despite what they had done earlier.
Ý
It had come up so casually:
Ý
"I feel like a slug," she'd said, unfolding her cards in a
fan on the bed.Ý "Gin."
Ý
"Son of a *bitch!*" Mulder had thrown his cards at
her.Ý "Another hand?"
Ý
SheÕd waved him off.Ý "I'm tired of cards." She had
folded her hands in her lap, feeling boredom and
displeasure bubbling in the pit of her stomach.Ý
She needed to *do* something.
Ý
"Okay, c'mon." Mulder had stood up and held out his
hand.Ý And that was how it had happened, something
that had never happened before.
Ý
It had been unusual, exercizing with Mulder.
Scully hadn't realized it until she stood up and shed
her robe.Ý He hadn't looked at her, as if she were
about to expose herself in some way, or he was.Ý He
hadn't been this modest with her in years.Ý
Ý
And then it hit her.
Ý
They'd been through hell and back, up one side of the
world and down the other, and until today she had
never worked out in front of Mulder.Ý
Ý
She didn't really today, anyway--they only did some
light stretching, sit-ups, push-ups, nothing major--
but that had been a strange feeling, that there were
still things she and Mulder hadn't shared, things they
hadn't done together.Ý HeÕd held her feet, hands over her
toes, palms pressing warmly as she did her sit ups,
reminding her of gym class in junior high.Ý At times
she forgot that she had a life separate from his: her
realization that afternoon had reassured her that
she was wrong.
Ý
He moved his feet on the blankets, and she turned to
him, rolling over on her side and tucking her arm
under her pillow.
Ý
"You asleep?" she asked.
Ý
"No."
Ý
"Mulder, can you sleep at all in that chair?"
Ý
He didn't respond.
Ý
"Mulder, I've been thinking . . ."
Ý
"Mmhmm."
Ý
She propped herself up on her elbow, trying to
discern him in the darkness.Ý No use.Ý The rooms had
no windows, which was to be expected in the
Antarctic, and which meant there would be no
external light.Ý He was nothing but an area in the
darkness, the soft sound of breath and motion.
Ý
"Last night, when I was sick, did you press a call
button for the orderlies?"
Ý
She heard the soft thud of his feet hitting the floor as
he sat up.Ý "No, I didn't."
Ý
"Mulder, *are* there call buttons for the orderlies?"
Ý
He was standing now; she could hear the whisper of
his socks on the floor back and forth near the end of
the bed.
Ý
"I haven't seen any," he answered.
Ý
"Neither have I," she said.
Ý
"Fuck." The gentle expulsion of air came from
somewhere around her knees.Ý The side of the bed
dipped and she knew he was sitting again, resting his
elbows on the edge of the mattress.
Ý
"Mulder, surveillance isn't that unusual in
quarantine situations.Ý We could be under
observation for precisely the reasons illustrated last
night." She sat up, wrapping her arms around her
knees to keep herself upright.
Ý
"Why aren't there call buttons, Scully?"
Ý
She had no answer.Ý She knew what he thought the
answer was, and she found herself agreeing with
him.Ý There were no call buttons, because there was
no need for call buttons.Ý Neither Mulder or Scully
would ever have to alert the medical staff to a health
crisis, because the medical staff would already know.
The conclusion was inescapable--they were under
surveillance 24-7, every word, every move watched.
Ý
"What do you want to do about it?" she asked,
although she knew the answer to that question, too.Ý
Ý
"At this point, nothing.Ý What can we do?" he
whispered.Ý "We need to find out as much as possible
about who's keeping us here, and why.Ý Suddenly I
suspect that this is more than a medical
quarantine."
Ý
"Mulder, I'm tired."
Ý
She heard him lift his head, although she couldn't
say how or why.Ý Through the absolute blackness of
this room that suddenly felt more like a crypt than a
recovery room, Mulder was looking at her.
Ý
"You should rest," he said finally.Ý "Get some sleep."
His hand rubbed her calf through the blanket.
Ý
"That's not what I meant.Ý Mulder, I'm tired of this.
I'm tired of having to be on my guard every time I
turn the corner, every time I open a car door, every
time I step into a room.Ý I'm tired of having to
wonder what is happening in my life as a result of
the actions of others.Ý I'm tired of wondering what's
going in my *own* body.Ý I hate this, Mulder.Ý I hate
the whole fucking thing."
Ý
His hand had stopped moving.
Ý
"What are you saying, Scully?"
Ý
"I'm saying that when we get back, *if* we ever get
back, maybe I shouldn't fight the transfer.Ý Maybe I
should go to Utah, get some perspective.Ý Maybe I
should leave the X-files."
Ý
*****
Ý
I wanted to go back about five minutes, to change
the conversation in whatever way it needed to be
changed to make her forget about Utah.Ý Forget
about leaving.Ý
Ý
Intellectually, I could understand what she meant.
It was too much, for her, for us.Ý I had just pulled her
from the wreckage of an alien craft onto the barren
ice of the Antarctic, and now I was telling her that
we weren't safe on the primrose path to recovery
like we had been so many times before.Ý We were
somewhere else, with God knows who, for who knows
what purposes.Ý Too much.
Ý
And I offer her too little.
Ý
*****
Ý
ÒWe donÕt even have the X-files,Ó he said.
Ý
"Mulder?"
Ý
He sighed.Ý "Maybe you're right, Scully.Ý Maybe you
should leave."
Ý
"Mulder, this isn't a rejection of you, this isn't about
you.Ý It's about me."
Ý
"You're breaking up with me."
Ý
She smiled, wishing he could see it.Ý "I'm just saying
that it's a possibility I might be considering.Ý One
that you should be aware of."
Ý
"So, I'm aware."
Ý
It was hard to believe that she knew him so well
that she could tell that his forehead was resting on
the backs of his hands.Ý "Mulder, stop it."
Ý
"Stop what?"
Ý
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, because you think
I'm rejecting you.Ý Not everything is about you."
Ý
"That sounds familiar."
Ý
"Yeah, too bad you didn't listen the first time.Ý Look .
. . " She stopped.Ý She wasn't sure what she should
say.Ý Mulder needed her, she knew that, but she
wasn't sure what that meant, exactly.Ý There had
been that moment in the hallway when she thought
for a second that Mulder was actually seeing her,
was recognizing Dana Scully as someone besides his
partner, besides the person who made him feel good
about himself.Ý She had hoped that he was seeing
her.Ý
Ý
Now she would never know.
Ý
She didn't know what to say.Ý She wanted to tell him
about herself.Ý She wanted things for herself--
happiness, pleasure, freedom, friendship--and
instead she had Mulder.Ý Mulder gave her all of those
things, but there was a price, and that price was
that she could get them from no where else.Ý She
thought at times that it was time to cut the cord,
but she knew that doing that would slice through her
gut as surely as it would slice through his.Ý She was
the breadth and scope of his connection with the
world, and she couldn't bring herself to let him go
down alone--that was what she liked to tell herself.
The truth was that Mulder meant more to her than
she wanted to admit, that she had somehow
assumed responsibility not only for Mulder, but for
his quest as well.Ý But she couldn't say that.
Ý
"Look, Mulder . . . " she repeated.
Ý
"Ultimately, Scully, it doesn't matter what I say.
This is a decision you have to make on your own."
Ý
"I'm glad you see that."
Ý
He didn't say anything, but she felt the blankets
move under his hands.
Ý
"Is this about what happened to you?"
Ý
"What happened to me?" she asked, forcing his hand.
Ý
"Emily."
Ý
*****
Ý
I heard the soft intake of her breath.Ý We hadn't
spoken of it, ever, not since the funeral, like we
hadn't spoken of my father, of Melissa, of the
countless things that happen between us every day.
We aren't big self-disclosers, my partner and I.
Ý
If she were going to leave me though, finally fulfill
the prophecy I had felt so long ago the first time
they took her, then I wanted to know the reason.
Ý
She owed me that, I thought.
Ý
"Mulder, can we not do this now?"
Ý
I sat back in my chair, fighting the urge to lash out.
Ý
"If not now, when?Ý You're the one who brought it up,
Scully.Ý You're the one who wanted to tell me how
important it is that you leave the X-files."
Ý
"This has nothing to do with Emily, Mulder."
Ý
She said that, so clearly, and the tone of her voice
told me who it was really about.Ý Me.Ý Once again.
This is what it always came down to, with Colton,
with Reggie, with Diana . . . Once again I had fucked
up, and this time it was about to cost me the only
person who had ever made me work to be better.
Ý
*****
Ý
He leaned back in his chair, pulling a thick three-ring
binder from the shelf behind him, one eye on the
screen.Ý The FLIR camera left a lot to be desired--his
subject were little more than grey outlines, shadows
in shadows--but it was the only technology that
would should anything besides blobs.Ý And the
directional audio in the bed frame was working
perfectly.
Ý
He pulled the binder onto his lap and opened it to the
tab marked August '98.Ý He flipped through the pages,
scanning endless blurry grey toned photos.Ý Ahh . . . there
they were.Ý Taken from a camera hidden in the peephole
of apartment forty-six, one picture every half second.Ý They
were hazy and obscure, warped by the camouflaging glass
of the peephole, but he had clearly been leaning in to
kiss her.
Ý
He flipped through the pages several times, like a kid
flipping through a book of stick drawings, making a
stop-frame movie in which Mulder's face bobbed
from her forehead to her lips and back again.Ý
Ý
He closed his eyes for a second, imagining himself in
that hallway, feeling Agent Scully's breath on his
face, her hands on his sides . . . it had been a long
time.
Ý
It had been a long time.
Ý
He glanced up at the FLIR screen.Ý They were still
talking, both of them with their arms folded across
their chests like teenagers.Ý They couldn't even see
each other and they were still in sync.
Ý
"Just kiss her," he growled at the screen.
Ý
*****
Ý
If she had possessed any doubt about the impact of
her words, he erased it with his bitter tone.Ý She
leaned forward, reaching in the darkness for his
hand.Ý She encountered the soft hair at the back of
his neck instead, and drew back for a moment.Ý Then
she reached out again and let her hand rest there.
Ý
"Mulder," she said.
Ý
No answer.
Ý
"Mulder, why don't we talk about this later.Ý Under
better circumstances."
Ý
She felt his head jerk away from her hand, and she
was grateful for the darkness, for not having to look
into his face and see the hurt etched there under the
skin.Ý She ran her fingers through the short hair at
his nape.Ý He was angry, she supposed, but she
couldn't do anything about it now.Ý
Ý
"You sleeping in that chair tonight?" she asked.Ý He
wouldn't, Scully thought, not after what she had
said.Ý Mulder would go to what had been her room
and leave her alone in the dark to feel awful about
threatening to leave him.Ý
Ý
"Yeah."
Ý
She could handle the guilt incurred by her desire to
quit the X-files, and the burden she shouldered in
revealing her intentions to him, but this was too
much, and too silly.Ý She wouldn't hurt him and then
leave him to sleep in a cheap plastic chair at her
side, like a bad dog.Ý She had had enough, enough of
Mulder's pathetic "I'm so alone" act, and enough of
her own resistance to it.
Ý
"Come on." She slid her hand to his arm and tugged
gently on it.Ý She knew if the lights were on he'd have
lifted his head and stared her down, but he didn't
have that opportunity.Ý For once she was calling the
shots.Ý She tugged again.Ý "Come here, Mulder."
Ý
She released his arm after he started to crawl up
onto the bed, relieved that for the moment it was
over.
Ý
*****end 04/10*****
Ý

Certitude 05/10: Nor Love

by Justin Glasser
 

------------------------------------------------------------------------
Report 17 of --
Operative 7477108N
2125 hours

M and F subject sleeping in same bed. Escalation of physical contact appears to have occured as a result of discovery of surrveillance--

He stopped typing. He should provide an explanation for their contact, he should explain how after five years of nothing more than hand-holding, agents Mulder and Scully wound up in bed together on his watch.

But it had been his snafu. He had been the one who sent in the clean-up team before his subjects had asked for one, before they had even thought about calling for a nurse. In his drive to be efficient and provide a report so complete that he could use it to get the fuck out of this hellhole, he had exposed himself and his bosses. Mulder and Scully knew they were being watched and he couldn't have been more responsible for that knowledge if he had sent them a fucking certified letter.

He glanced at one of the screens, the one taken from the FLIR camera, watching the black and white outlines of the subjects shift on the narrow bed.

They were the lucky ones. At least Mulder had her. Mulder was a trial subject and his next twenty-four hours were going to be the worst of his life if he survived. Some hadn't. Some had simply screamed in pain until they ruptured something and then died, fresh blood in their mouths. But if anyone found out who had clued the subjects in to their surrveillance, he would trade lives with Mulder in a heartbeat.

The trials weren't the worst things that could happen to you here.

He glanced at the computer tracking their vital signs. They were asleep, from the looks of it. He ran his hands over his face, pushing his knuckles into his eyes.

Then he began to delete.

*****

When I slid beneath the covers, I expected her to turn on her side away from me and go to sleep. We had nothing more to say to one another--she'd made that clear. "Let's talk about that some other time." Some time when she could get away from me that much easier. Scully spent a lot of time trying to put distance between us, and I spent a lot of time trying to coax her back.

The bed was small, so small that she was pressed against my side, every inch of me from my shoulder to my waist-- she must have had her knees bent.

I had crossed my arms over my chest, because if I didn't, I would reach out for her. There was a little black hole beneath my ribs, a hole that had opened up the first time she had mentioned leaving, a thousand years ago in my apartment. It was a little wider now, a little more ragged around the edges. I folded my arms over it. It was mine.

ìShould we be doing this?î I asked.

ìDoing what?î

ìScully, theyíre watching us, recording us . . . Is this wise?î ìYou worried about blackmail material?î She sounded amused.

ìDepends. What do you have in mind?î I asked.

ìGo to sleep, Mulder.î

I lay on my back, trying to do just that, when she spoke again.

"What would you do if I left?" she asked, her voice coming from the other side of her body.

What would I do?

I shrugged against the pillow, realizing suddenly how comfortable it was against my back. For some reason, the softness made me feel more lonely than that plastic chair had.

"I don't know," I said. "I meant what I said back in the hallway. I don't know if I can do it without you. Maybe for awhile."

She shifted under the blankets and I felt her shoulder settle back against my arm. She was so warm.

"Did you know that psychologists have demonstrated that men are forty percent more likely to self-disclose when they can't see the person they're talking to," I said, trying to move away.

"What are you saying, Mulder?"

"That it's a common complaint among people who know me that I have, um . . . trouble communicating. After I shot my first man, the therapist they sent me to said that for someone who talked so damn much I sure didn't say anything."

She chuckled a little, her shoulder moving against mine. She needed to stop moving very soon or I would have to get out of the bed and sleep in the damned chair.

"Sorry," I said.

"Don't apologize, Mulder," she answered, and I could still hear the amusement in her voice. "Answer."

"Answer?"

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted me to stay?"

"I couldn't."

"You couldn't."

She always repeated things when she didn't believe me.

I sighed. Why not, I thought. Why not tell her? We were finally in the one place where Scully couldn't get away from me, nor I her. No phone was going to ring, no case was going to get dropped in our laps, no fucking bee was going to sting her. We were in the middle of nowhere being held captive by an unknown contingent under constant surveillance and it was the only place my partner and I might actually talk.

Irony wasn't the word.

"I thought . . ." I paused. Breathed. "I thought it might make you leave."

ìYou . . . Mulder, why would you think telling me you wanted me to stay would make me leave?"

For someone who believes he loves the truth as deeply and abidingly as I do, I find it awfully hard to speak at times. I swallowed.

"I thought you might feel trapped. Obligated." My voice came out light and careless, but my heart throbbed and pounded in my chest.

"Trapped."

There was silence for a long time after that. I thought she might have fallen asleep. Strange pictures of rabbits and a picnic were playing in my head when she finally spoke again.

"Why do you do it, Mulder?"

"Hmm?" I said, although I'd heard her. She asked again. Scully is relentless.

"Why? Now that you've seen Samantha."

"Now I'm in too deep, Scully. How could I walk away, live a normal boring life solving bank fraud cases?"

I heard her move in the dark. Although I couldn't describe why, it sounded like she was nodding.

"So we just do this until we can't be rescued anymore, hmm?"

I wanted to grab her hand and press it to my chest, to smooth away the weariness I heard in her voice, to ask her if this meant that she was going to stay, X-files or not, but she was just a warm shape beside me and her hand could have been anywhere.

"I'll always rescue you, Scully," I murmured, half- hoping she wouldn't hear.

Silence.

The bed shifted, then she pulled one of my arms away from my body and crept under it, resting her cheek on my chest.

"Scully," I murmured, wondering.

Her fingers found the hem of my t-shirt and slid beneath it, coming to rest against my stomach. I found myself wanting to suck my breath in. Her hand was slightly cool.

"Go to sleep, Mulder."

"I was just wondering if I should be concerned for my virtue."

As a response, she sidled closer, throwing one leg over one of mine, just missing the sure sign that I had long since stopped considering Scully as my platonic friend and asexual partner It was a big sign, even if I have to say so myself.

We lay in the dark, folded together, so close that I could feel her heart against my ribs. I wanted to squeeze her tight: I didn't because I thought if I held her too tight it might make her aware of what we were doing and then she would pull away. Same worries, different day.

"Do you think it's kinkier now that we know they're watching?"

"Shut up, Mulder."

I squeezed her, kissed the top of her head.

I am a brute to Scully. Over and over again I push her away, test her, torment her to see how much she will take. As of yet, I haven't reached her limits. She may go after all. She may leave me and go to Utah, she may leave the Bureau altogether and go on to what would be a brillant career in forensic pathology, she may go off and write a cheesy airport novel that sells a billion copies and makes her independently wealthy. If she decides to go I have promised myself that I will not do what I did in that hallway the last time, I will not offer her the chance for something other than my partnership in order to keep her. I owe her that much.

She must stay because of her dedication to the truth, because she believes, as I do, that only through our cases can we have access to the information necessary to reveal the secrets being kept from us. She must stay because she sees the bigger picture.

Sometimes, I see only her.

And then I shake my head like a wet dog and then that goes away. For a while.

"Mulder," she said, and I didn't want her to say anymore so I spoke. It seemed easier to say it than to hear it.

"We won't be doing this when we get back."

I wanted her to leap in then, to press her finger to my lips and then press her lips to my lips. I wanted here to say that we would be doing this and more. I wanted her to whisper in my ear that she would never leave my side, that we would always be wrapped up together like this, that there was nothing I could do that would force her away, I wanted her to say--

"No." Her voice was low and calm. "We won't."

I sighed, lightly. "I'll miss it."

She smiled, I know, because I felt the movement of her face against my chest. She might have kissed me there, over my heart. I pressed her closer. I nudged my face into her hair.

"I already do," she said, against my shirt.

*****end 5/10*****

continued